


Want

by shomaun_ho



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 18:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16497572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shomaun_ho/pseuds/shomaun_ho
Summary: ' “I’ve lived with them for twenty-two years,” Shoma says. “This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had sex in the house and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”Yuzuru flinches, and hushes Shoma with a wave of his hands. It’s a fear that has held them apart for the duration of the trip, thus far. Yuzuru is happy to share a bed, to sleep together in the most literal of senses, but he is too afraid of being overheard to try—anything. It hasn't been that much of a problem, not really; they've gone longer without and Shoma is perfectly content to just spend a little downtime together in between the hustle and bustle of shows, but…But Yuzuru watched porn, and now he's being ababyabout it. '





	Want

**Author's Note:**

> hi sorry this is self indulgent idiocy but there's smut and some softness somewhere in there
> 
> I just - Yuzuru is always the sexy confident one and I wanted him to be...not so perfect, for once. And also I love me some bratty, dry-humoured shoma, so - have at it, I guess

Yuzuru is often flustered, in some way or another. Shoma has become accustomed to this, over the years; even back in their junior days, Yuzuru was a constant hum of energy, flitting and fleeting, unwilling to stop, to settle. Shoma spent many a competition watching him pass, wide-eyed and silent, half-hidden behind Mihoko’s hip as Yuzuru paced by, again, again, again. And if he wasn’t walking, striding the space behind the boards or stepping over outstretched legs in the warm up zone, he was fidgeting, fingers tucking his hair or pulling at his cheeks, tugging his sleeves, or else wringing together. Nervous. Ruffled.

As a senior, Yuzuru holds himself with a little more composure. At least, it appears as such for the cameras, and the crowd: a practiced poker face—low brows, pursed lips, shoulders back and spine snapped straight. He oozes an illusion of intense focus, one the media and the fans lap up happily. But Shoma has no lens through which to watch him. Shoma sees what the masses do not. He sees the trembling fingers, the shaken-out hands, the twitching, jumping muscles at his knees, his shoulders. And the pacing—the pacing never changes.

And so it shouldn’t be so unusual, that Yuzuru is doing it now—a steady, metronomous back and forth, back and forth. It shouldn’t be, but it is, because Yuzuru isn’t at a competition. He isn’t waiting his turn, poised to skate. There is no title on the line. No medal to be won.

He is in the kitchen. Shoma’s kitchen, sock-clad toes slipping on the gleaming tile floor with every about face. Six long strides to the oven, pivot, six steps back to the end of the counter, repeat. Shoma sits somewhere in the middle tracking him lazily, elbow on the countertop, chin propped on his hand.

It’s early, and a brief, long-awaited break in the humidity has left the air feeling cool, refreshing. It’s a reprieve that won’t last long, they know, so Shoma’s mother had thrown every window open to let a little of the stifling air out, and the fresh air in. The morning breeze ruffles Shoma’s fringe—it’s grown a little too long again, dangling low over his eyes. Shoma has to squint to peek through it, to watch Yuzuru turn abruptly once more, and begin another length of the kitchen.

“There’s coffee,” Shoma says, and Yuzuru jars to a halt. Startled, as though he’d forgotten that Shoma was even there.

“Thanks,” Yuzuru says. Continues pacing. Shoma rolls his eyes, and stretches, smoothing both hands out over the counting and bowing himself over it. He folds his arms, and rests a cheek atop them.

“Not that you need it,” he mumbles. Yuzuru shoots him a look, eyes pinched half-closed, and Shoma hides his grin in his elbow. “What’s got you so…” he trails away, and waves a hand absently in Yuzuru’s direction.

“ _So…’_ what?” Yuzuru says. Shoma raises an eyebrow.

“Nobody’s going for your gold in here,” Shoma says. “You can, you know, sit still. For a while.”

Yuzuru stills again. Slowly, this time, more a deceleration than an emergency stop, and he comes to stand on the opposite side of the counter to Shoma. Looking a little like it pains him to do so, he pulls out a stool and sits, upright and stiff. Shoma rolls his eyes up to look at him.

It’s difficult to gauge just what might be going on in his head. Yuzuru so often has a very convincing poker face, and there isn’t all that much that can break it, but today it is riddled with cracks, spidering all over the surface. Shoma can see the imperfections—they are there in his smile, twitching at the corners, and in the tick in his jaw, and the pinch of his eyes as he tries to hold them steady on Shoma’s. Each little fissure offers a glimpse, a tiny window into Yuzuru’s mind, but even if Shoma squints, he can’t see through.

“All your pacing is making  _me_ tired,” Shoma says.

Yuzuru runs a hand through his hair, and huffs out a sigh. His smile softens into something a little more genuine.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m...a little frustrated.”

Shoma raises a brow in question, and Yuzuru shakes his head in response.

“It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Shoma says. Yuzuru crosses his arms on the countertop, too, and sinks to rest a cheek on them, mirroring Shoma—except, his body is so much _longer_ , and one little stretch leaves them level, elbow to elbow. Yuzuru twists his head the opposite way, and suddenly they are so close, face to face, Shoma’s forehead level with Yuzuru’s chin. Shoma can feel Yuzuru’s breath ruffling the hair on his forehead.

“It’s fine,” Yuzuru says. His voice sounds soft, like this. Less tense. Shoma offers a small smile in return, and lifts his head, cranes his neck to place a kiss to Yuzuru’s exposed cheek. He settles back, and burrows his grin back into his elbow: Yuzuru is steadily reddening, a thick, cherry strip right across the middle of his face.

Yuzuru is fond of physical affection. For the most part, he is more comfortable with it than Shoma is, so it is equal parts amusing and curious, to see him reacting so viscerally to such casual intimacy. Often times their roles are reversed, Yuzuru poking and prodding, cooing at Shoma’s knotting hands and ruddy cheeks. It isn’t all that common for Shoma to get a turn.

“What?” He asks.

Yuzuru’s gaze is a little glassy, staring not quite at Shoma—they are focused on something  behind him, _through_ him, nothing worldly that Shoma could see even if he were to turn around. And then he blinks, blinks again, lids fluttering rapidly, and a little of the vacancy in his eyes disappears.

“Nothing,” he says, but his voice comes a little dazed, edging on breathless. Shoma quirks a brow. If he didn’t know better, he’d think perhaps Yuzuru was—

Yuzuru lifts his head. Shoma’s eyes follow him as he raises up a little more, gaze flitting over the half of Shoma’s face that he can see. And then he leans in, nose bumping against Shoma’s, nudging in close. Shoma hums a question and lifts his head, too, just enough for Yuzuru to sneak in closer still, and press his lips—softly, a barely-there touch—against Shoma’s own. Shoma breathes out a sigh against Yuzuru’s mouth, and a pleasant warmth swells in his chest.

Yuzuru smells warm. Comfortable. Shoma presses himself a little closer, turns the touch more solid, more grounding. A tiny, barely audible groan slithers out of Yuzuru’s throat, so quiet Shoma mightn’t have heard it if they weren’t so close. Yuzuru’s fingers tease at the hair atop his head, sink into it gently. The angle is awkward, to say the least, faces wedged together from opposite sides of the counter, Yuzuru’s nose tickling at Shoma’s chin, but it’s...nice. Shoma relaxes into it, opens his lips to the gentle slip of Yuzuru’s tongue, and Yuzuru eases shuffles closer still, curls his fingers a little harder into Shoma’s hair, and—

—and the kitchen door opens, Itsuki’s sleep-heavy footsteps stumbling in.

Yuzuru pulls away abruptly, as though he’d been burned. Shoma blinks himself blearily back to life, and turns to glance at his brother, who looks—far less traumatised than Shoma thought he might’ve looked. He is too busy rubbing at his eyes, scratching absently at his stomach beneath his shirt as he strolls into the kitchen, mumbling a hoarse _morning_ , grabbing blindly for the coffee pot.

“You’re up late,” Shoma says. Yuzuru has returned to his seat on the stool, eyes wide, back ramrod straight. Itsuki pours a drink, stifles a yawn.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thought I could avoid you if I stayed in bed long enough.”

Shoma sticks out his tongue, and the three of them fall into a comfortable silence, while Itsuki bowls up some cold rice. Comfortable, except for Yuzuru, whose discomfit stands out like a beacon. Shoma tries to look a question at him, but Yuzuru doesn’t meet his gaze, staring instead at the countertop, stiff and completely unmoving.

They remain that way until Itsuki is done, balancing his food and drinks as he heads out of the kitchen.

“Oh,” Itsuki’s says, making for the door, “by the way, I’d appreciate if you two didn’t make out on the counter. I have to eat off of that.”

Shoma rips off a sock and bunches it up, launching it at Itsuki’s cackling form.

Yuzuru chokes. He continues his pacing.

* * *

Predictably, the temperature creeps up as the day goes on. By lunchtime, the mercury is solidly pushing the boundaries of Shoma’s comfort, and Yuzuru’s seething temperament is doing much the same with his patience. His general sense of restlessness has progressed into something more biting, and the frown that was worrying his brow has settled into a deep scowl.

Shoma feels trapped between the stifling, stagnant air, and Yuzuru’s bitter demeanor.

And it isn’t just his attitude that is proving problematic. There is something...off, about him, that Shoma can’t quite place. It is more than the general agitation, more than the fidgeting, the tapping fingers and bouncing knees—there is a rigidity to him, one that arises at even the lightest of touches. Shoma’s fingers at his elbow, their knees knocking together on the sofa, Shoma’s lips to his cheek: every point of contact makes him harden, head to toe, or else makes him twitch, flinch away. It’s subtle enough, the barest pinch of his eye or clench of his fist, but Shoma spots it all the same.

It’s odd. It’s intriguing.

But mostly, it’s annoying.

It’s too hot to deal with whatever problem Yuzuru is having, and none of Shoma’s suggestions seem to appeal to him.

“We could go out,” he says, after lunch, “for a walk. Stretch your legs, if you’re bored.”

To which Yuzuru responds with a shake of his head, a renewed vigor in the jump of his knee, and a quiet, “You’ll get too hot.” Which, Shoma has to admit, is very true, but it was worth the offer.

“How about a movie?” He tries, as the clock ticks its way past three. They have surrounded themselves with fans, Shoma sprawled over the sofa, Yuzuru folded neatly into one corner, chewing on a nail. _Tap, tap, tap_ , go his toes on the floor. Shoma grits his teeth. He kicks half-heartedly at Yuzuru’s thigh, and Yuzuru recoils, tucks himself further out of reach.

And in the hours of silence, Yuzuru continues to fuss. Every now and then, he opens his mouth as though he has something to say, only to snap it closed again, and turn his gaze away. Shoma watches the furrow in his brow wrinkle, relax, fold deeper into itself, watches Yuzuru’s eyes flick towards him and flit quickly away again. Watches Yuzuru’s fingers in his lap, unclench from their knot and sometimes, Shoma thinks they reach towards him, as if Yuzuru wants to touch—but each and every time, they shrink away.

It is only when the sun begins to dip and the temperature settles to something a little more manageable that Shoma brings it up again. They are dozing, Yuzuru’s long limbs splayed over the bed, and Shoma tucked onto the windowsill, knees curled to his chest and legs crossed at the ankle. Yuzuru’s legs are restless, and Shoma stares down his wiggling feet, his twitching thighs, and then he sighs, long and deep and loud, and Yuzuru casts a look at him.

“What?” He says, terse, as though it is somehow _Shoma_ being the problem here. Shoma narrows his eyes.

“You’re being...twitchy. And you’ve been angry all day, and your temper is—”

“I have _not_ been angry,” Yuzuru says—angrily.

“— _short_ ,” Shoma continues. “I get that it’s hot, and Brian vetoed your jumping practice while you’re here, and—I don’t know, did you sleep okay? Are you hungry? Sick?”

“I slept fine,” Yuzuru says. “And I’m not hungry, or sick. And my temper is _fine_. Normal.”

“Is it the jumps?”

“It’s not the jumps.”

“You admit it’s something, then,” Shoma says. Yuzuru ticks his tongue against his teeth. He pushes to sit himself upright, back propped against the headboard. His fingers find a loose thread in Shoma’s blanket and he tugs at it absently, unweaving a small section of stitching until the thread comes free. He sprinkles it to the floor, and searches for another. Shoma watches him with his arms folded loose over his chest—Yuzuru looks a little pitiful, now, as though the anger has siphoned itself away and left him a tired, disgruntled looking shell.

“I told you,” Yuzuru says. “I’m just…frustrated.”

“Why?”

And just like before, Yuzuru huffs, and cards a hand back through his hair. The strands stick up at odd angles, and maybe, if they were sitting together more closely, Shoma might move to flatten them out. As it stands he lets them stay, sweat-damp and poking out in all directions.

“Your practices have been going well, you said,” Shoma starts. “Your lutz is…steady again. You’re happy with your new choreography. We have a couple weeks break from shows. No media outlets know you’re here, you have no interviews lined up until—Saturday?”

“Sunday.”

“Sunday. What is there to be frustrated about?”

Yuzuru lets out a long, slow kind of breath. Maybe it’s the heat, or the peachy glow from the setting sun, Shoma isn’t too sure, but Yuzuru’s cheeks look awfully _pink_.

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

Shoma tilts his head, bites at the inside of his cheek.

“I promise nothing,” he says. “But I’ll try my best.”

Yuzuru squints at him, assessing, and then:

“I watched a movie.”

“...a movie.”

Yuzuru nods. Shoma wracks his brain for something, anything, about a movie that could possibly cause Yuzuru such visceral discontent—was it about skating? Another enactment that fantasizes, defies the possible? Shoma doesn’t mind them, but he has spent one too many a night next to Yuzuru’s flailing limbs, listening to his every bitter, exasperated, _they don’t have nearly enough height for that jump_ or, _that’s not even a legal move!_ or, _you can’t learn a triple from nothing in six weeks_ , and even, _five rotations just—isn’t possible! I’ve tried!_

But this isn’t the same kind of frustration. This isn’t petty, or angry: it’s an antsy, itching kind of restlessness, the buzz Yuzuru gets when he is pent up, raring to go—a horse, trapped at the starting gate.

“What kind of movie?” Shoma asks. Yuzuru squirms.

“It was—I had it on my computer, from—a while ago.”

“What was it about?”

Yuzuru squirms again. He looks awkward, uncomfortable, wriggling against the bedding. Shoma narrows his eyes, just a little, scrutinizing; there are very few topics that make Yuzuru so...shifty.

Most times, Yuzuru is full to bursting with words upon words, talks himself in long, endless looping circles, but where certain topics are concerned Yuzuru has a disconnect. A safety bar, one that pinches the line between mind and tongue, traps his thoughts inside his head, and it takes an awful lot of fumbling and stuttering and coaxing to squeeze them out.

He stumbles when it comes to talking about the future, Shoma has noticed—about his plans beyond competitive skating, where he wants to go, what he'd like to do. Shoma has watched him pick at his nails or dust lint from his pants, refold his sleeves or re-button his cuffs in interviews when the topic arises, tongue swelling around the conversation. But whatever movie he has watched is unlikely to revolve around that, and similarly, Shoma doubts the characters on the screen have somehow publicly scrutinised Yuzuru over his love life, which leaves...just one option.

"Just...some guys," Yuzuru says. He is going for nonchalant, but the shrug of his shoulder is tense, and his fingers pinch at the bed sheets until his knuckles bleed white.

Shoma bites the inside of his cheek to hold back his grin. He doesn't need Yuzuru to say anymore, not really, but it's...fun, in a way, to watch him squirm. Just a little.

"Yeah?" Shoma says. "What were they doing?"

Yuzuru shoots him a look, then, and Shoma fights to keep his expression neutral; wide, owlish eyes, lips loose, head tilted _just_ enough to seal his sincerity. It's a look Yuzuru hates, Shoma knows, because he can never be sure if it is earnest curiosity, or if it’s Shoma being a brat, much like now.

"Just...you know, romance...stuff."

"Like what?" Shoma asks, tilting his head a little further. "Holding hands? _Kissing_?"

Yuzuru gives him a withering kind of glance, and Shoma bites his cheek harder, but the smile shines through—it must do, because Yuzuru eyes grow wider, a little pleading, and from his throat comes a high, huffy little whine.

"You know exactly _what_ ," he says. “He was—they were— _you know_.”

And Shoma does know. He knows by the way Yuzuru’s eyes shift, darting to look at anything but Shoma, and by the way his hands fumble, wedged between his thighs. He can tell purely by Yuzuru’s avoidance of the words— _they were having sex_.

Yuzuru isn’t shy about sex, not really. He has more experience than Shoma does, has tested far more waters with many more people. He isn’t ashamed to bare his body, takes pleasure, even, in being exposed, being the centre of attention. He likes Shoma to look but not touch, likes to tease, put on a show. Everything Yuzuru does is for an audience of some kind: an act, and the aiming is always to please.

But _talking_ about it—that is a different matter entirely. Shoma has heard him speak frankly when they are together, Yuzuru panting and boneless and desperate for more—he has heard _harder_ and _more_ and _fuck me_ , has heard the most obscene instructions pass Yuzuru’s lips, but once their clothes are on and the bed is made, Yuzuru is once more tongue-tied, stuttering at every attempt.

“You were watching porn,” Shoma says. Yuzuru flinches.

“Not _porn_ ,” he says, the word spilling bitterly from his tongue. “An adult movie.”

“Fancy porn.”

“I wasn’t—” Yuzuru starts, loud, and then a sound in the hallway reminds him that they aren’t alone, that the walls are thin, that Shoma’s whole family is milling around the house. He lowers his voice to a hiss. “I wasn’t watching porn.”

Shoma raises an eyebrow. Yuzuru is very strong willed in an awful lot of aspects, but he is not, as Shoma has learned, a particularly skilled liar. Apply a little pressure, and he snaps like a twig.

“I was _bored_ ,” he whines, crossing his arms. He is aiming for defiance, landing a little south. “I woke up early, and you were at practice, and everyone was _quiet_ —I just—I was going to do some coursework. I have assignments. I was looking for old lectures, and I found—I don’t know how it got there.”

Shoma lifts his brow higher still.

“I downloaded it _ages_ ago,” Yuzuru says. “I never got around to watching it.”  

“Mhm,” Shoma hums, reclining against the wall. Yuzuru looks at him, an odd mix of sheepish and plain _guilty_. “Well, what happened then?”

Yuzuru shuffles uncomfortably. If Shoma were a nicer person, he’d maybe stop pushing—Yuzuru looks about ready for the ground to open up and swallow him whole, a mortified kind of pallor to his skin and a brilliant pink glow to the very tips of his ears. But Yuzuru has been a pest all _day_ , grumpy and terse and _fidgety_ , so fidgety: he deserves at least a little punishment.   

“Just...the regular stuff. Porn things.” The words come thick and a little muddled, like Yuzuru’s tongue is too fat behind his teeth, like there isn’t enough space in his mouth for the sounds to form. “But they just—did something we’ve never done before. It looked...alright. Good.”

Shoma sits up a little straighter. This, now, is starting to make a little more sense. It’s been a while, since Yuzuru had to ask for anything during sex—months upon months of trying, testing, learning what works and what doesn’t. They know each other well enough, now, that there is no real need to specify much of anything—a look, a nod, a _yes_ and maybe a _please_ , and that’s all it takes. Yuzuru has been spoiled by the silence—and now that he has to speak up, he doesn’t know where to begin.

“What was it?”

Yuzuru burrows his hands between his thighs. If Shoma were to take away the context, Yuzuru would look an awful lot like a bashful child—eyes downturned, fingers knotted into one white-knuckled mass, shoulders hunched and back a little curved. But as it stands, he is not a child: he is a grown man trying to talk about a topic that all adults should be able to discuss with at least some semblance of dignity. Shoma almost feels sorry for him.  
  
Almost.

Yuzuru casts his gaze up, a little pleading. Shoma waits him out. Yuzuru hates awkward silences, and the space stretching between them is growing stagnant—he will feel compelled to fill it, eventually, if Shoma lets it breed.

Yuzuru is _boiling_ with the need to say something, Shoma can tell. He is fizzing with it, body shuddering with an almost imperceptible tremble. It twitches his limbs, battling for space with the awkwardness, the discomfort. Shoma bites his tongue—a little longer. It’s only a matter of time before the dam will break.

“He just, you know—” Yuzuru bursts out, ripping his fingers apart and digging them into the bedding instead. “He _kissed_ him. There.”

“There,” Shoma says, deadpan. Yuzuru groans and throws himself back onto the bed, arms tossed up over his face. He is _definitely_ pink, now, over his cheeks, his nose, the very tips of his ears, and even down over his neck, to the skin of his chest where it disappears beneath his tacky, sweat-damp shirt.

“Yes, _there_. On his…” Yuzuru gestures vaguely to his bottom half.

“Penis?”

Yuzuru gives a small, strangled sound from behind his arm.

“No.”

“Balls?”

“ _No_ —and will you keep your voice down? Your whole _family_ is downstairs.”

“Then what? His—” Oh.

_Oh._

Shoma has seen it before. On his laptop late at night, tucked deep under the covers, headphones plugged to catch any stray sounds the video clips might make. It always looks _good_ , for them, men squirming and writhing, pushing their hips back for more lips and tongue, more contact. Shoma has never much seen the appeal—but, clearly, the sight has done something for Yuzuru. He is peeking at Shoma from between his arms, eyes blown big, shiny, endlessly black.

“Oh.”

Yuzuru gives another strangled little groan, covers his eyes again.

“And—you liked it? Like, the look of it?”

There is a pregnant pause, and then, slowly, Yuzuru nods. The pink in his cheeks has deepened to a bloody red, and his chest shakes a little with every breath he takes.

Shoma blinks at him.

“That’s it?” He says. Yuzuru nods a little harder.

Shoma blinks again. Cocks his head.

“We can do that,” he says, “if that’s what you want.”

He is met with silence, and an unnerving stillness from Yuzuru—if he hadn’t been a mess of jerks and taps and twitches since that morning, Shoma mightn’t have found it so unsettling, but now, Yuzuru is so wholly unmoving, that Shoma wonders if perhaps he stopped breathing, or if his heart stopped beating.

“...really?”

Yuzuru’s voice comes higher than usual, a squeak choked in his throat.

“Really,” Shoma says. Another pause, and then—

“I don’t know,” Yuzuru says—whines. “We’re—your family—”

“I’ve lived with them for twenty-two years,” Shoma says. “This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had sex in the house and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

Yuzuru flinches, and hushes Shoma with a wave of his hands. It’s a fear that has held them apart for the duration of the trip, thus far. Yuzuru is happy to share a bed, to sleep together in the most literal of senses, but he is too afraid of being overheard to try—anything. It hasn't been that much of a problem, not really; they've gone longer without and Shoma is perfectly content to just spend a little downtime together in between the hustle and bustle of shows, but…

But Yuzuru watched porn, and now he's being a _baby_ about it.

Yuzuru makes a pathetic little noise in the back of his throat.

Shoma eyes him pitifully. It isn't like he is the _most_ confident person in the world—he fumbles, he blushes, he often struggles to bite down his own embarrassment, voicing what he wants during sex, but Yuzuru...

Yuzuru is on a level all his own.

Shoma hangs his head on a sigh, and resists the desperate urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Look,” he starts, after a long, strength-finding breath. “Do you want to? Or not? We don't have to, but—”

Yuzuru presses the back of hand against his mouth, and squeezes his eyes closed. Shoma can see the turmoil on his face—he _wants_ , clearly; the hurdle is allowing himself, and he is stumbling to climb over it.

“It's fine,” Shoma says quietly, slipping off the windowsill and sitting on the edge of the bed. He lifts a hand, hesitates, then rests his palm gingerly on Yuzuru’s thigh. Yuzuru twitches, winks an eye to look at him. Shoma gives Yuzuru’s leg a reassuring squeeze.

“Nobody will hear us, if we're quiet. Itsuki has his headphones in most of the time anyways, and my parents are downstairs, the TV is on…”

Shoma rubs little circles on Yuzuru’s thigh with his thumb. It's supposed to be soothing, calming, but Yuzuru’s hips give an involuntarily little twitch when Shoma’s touch dances a little too high, fingers inching up the inside of his leg.

Shoma looks down at Yuzuru’s face, at the rosy skin of his cheeks, the pinched wrinkles around his eyes, at his teeth, raking over his bottom lip. He tilts his head.

“Do you want to try?”

Yuzuru presses the heels of both hands into his eyes, hard enough he must see stars, and nods.

“Okay,” Shoma says. He leans over to press a quick, sharp kiss to Yuzuru’s mouth, and gives his thigh one last squeeze before he stands, and kicks gently at Yuzuru’s dangling ankle. “Go—get ready. Whatever.”

Yuzuru shoots him a startled look.

“I'm not— _leaving_ ,” he hisses. “Someone might see me.”

“What, going to the bathroom? Suspicious.”

Yuzuru aims a kick at him, which Shoma dodges.

“Brat.”

“I'm serious,” Shoma says. “Why else would anybody shower? In the _evening_? Seems suspect to me.”

“I regret telling you anything.”

“I just hope they've turned the cameras off in here,” Shoma says, dancing out of reach as Yuzuru swings another kick at him. “And the microphones.”

“Very funny.”

Yuzuru heaves himself up and reaches out an obscenely long arm, fingers catching and curling into the fabric of Shoma’s shirt, and tugs. Shoma jostles, stumbles, and comes to a stop between Yuzuru’s knees, steadying himself with both hands braced on Yuzuru’s shoulders. There is a smile playing on Yuzuru’s lips, but it fades the longer they stand, and the fingers caught in Shoma’s shirt fiddle pointlessly with the hem, alternately folding it up and smoothing it down.

“Are you sure?” Yuzuru asks. His voice is pitifully quiet. “It's not too...weird?”

Shoma tips his head to the side.

“It might be,” he says honestly, and Yuzuru flinches. “I've never done it, so I don't know. But I want to try, if it's what you wanna do.”

Yuzuru makes a strangled, helpless little sound in the back of his throat and pulls Shoma closer by the shirt, tilts his chin up to kiss him. It's a soft touch, a thank you, and Shoma melts into it, eyes fluttering shut at the feel of Yuzuru’s fingertips tickling delicately against his jaw. Shoma reaches up to catch Yuzuru’s wrists, holding them softly.

“Go,” he says, quiet against Yuzuru’s lips. “I'll wait.”

Yuzuru hums, and draws Shoma in for another kiss before nudging him back and stretching to his feet.

“I won't be long,” he says. Shoma nods, bites back a smile at the renewed slap of pink over Yuzuru’s cheeks.

“Alright,” Shoma says, skirting around the bed, making sure he is well out of Yuzuru’s reach before he says, “I'll make sure the place isn't bugged, for when you get back.”

* * *

Yuzuru takes 20 minutes in the bathroom. Not that Shoma is timing, it's just, after straightening the rumpled bedding as best he can, stripping himself of his clothes, redressing, removing his shirt again, checking the drawer for all the usual necessities, and tugging his shirt back on again, only five minutes have passed, and all that is left to do is watch the clock as the hands tick around, painfully slowly, until finally the door opens, and Yuzuru slips back inside.

He is pleasantly flushed, skin kissed by the heat of the shower. He is also still vaguely damp, droplets of water pattering down from his hair, leaving dark splotches across the shoulders of his shirt.

“Ready?” Shoma asks. Yuzuru's cheeks flame, but he nods.

“Where should I…” he trails off uselessly, gesturing vaguely to the bed. Shoma shrugs at him.

“I don't know,” Shoma says. “Where do you want to be?”

Yuzuru gives him a wide-eyed, pleading kind of look, flits his gaze between Shoma and the bed and back again.

It's always…odd, seeing Yuzuru like this. So often he is in complete control, knows exactly where he needs to be, what he needs to do, moving with shameless purpose—but not with this. Shoma should be used to it by now, really; this awkward, fragile side of him, the parts that beg and plead for guidance, instruction. Yuzuru knows what to do, when it comes to sex, and he knows what he wants—but there is that disconnect, somewhere, a block that simply won't let him ask, won’t let him _tell._

This, Shoma thinks, is a very good opportunity to knock on the wall, find a crack to pry through.

Yuzuru huffs and squirms where he stands.

“Can't you just—”

Shoma shakes his head.

“I've never done this before,” he says. “I need you to tell me what to do.”

Yuzuru looks like he wants to argue, and Shoma internally braces himself for a fight, but it doesn't come. Instead, Yuzuru shuffles his feet, face aflame, then shucks himself out of his shirt. Shoma nods encouragingly at him.

“Me too?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

Yuzuru pushes at the waistband of his sweats, too, and they tumble down his legs along with his underwear, leaving him bare. The skin of his chest is coloured, a heavier flush than his face, and it is the only give-away of his excitement.

After a moment's deliberation, he moves to perch on the edge of the bed. He sits, stiff and awkward, and struggles to meet Shoma’s gaze. It's a concentrated effort not to roll his eyes.

“I don't think that's right,” Shoma says.

Yuzuru scratches absently at his neck, where a red, hivey rash is creeping up. Yuzuru’s emotional turmoil doesn't often manifest itself in physical discomforts, and the sight gives Shoma his first serious pause for thought. Perhaps this is too much; perhaps he is pushing too hard.

He reaches out, let's the very tips of his fingers brush along one of Yuzuru’s knees.

“Okay?” he asks, tipping his head. “We can stop.”

Yuzuru looks, for a moment, like he might be considering it—and then he shakes his head, curls both hands against either side of his neck and rolls his head on his shoulders.

“I'm fine,” he says, nods once, hard. Then he shimmies back, across the bedding, and rolls abruptly onto his stomach. He settles there, tucking one arm beneath the pillow and hugging it close to his face.

From the foot of the bed, Shoma can see the blush creeping around the back of Yuzuru's neck, bruising the skin a pretty, flowery pink.

"I feel exposed," he mumbles. Shoma flicks the sole of his foot, and Yuzuru recoils with a little yelp, bending a knee against the bedding. "Is this—right?"

Shoma shrugs.

"You tell me," he says, crawling up onto the mattress. Yuzuru barely moves, barely even breathes, as Shoma settles on his knees on the bed and folds his hands in his lap.

Yuzuru stays quiet, for a while. Shoma let's him be, watches him closely as he gathers himself; long, steadying breaths in, deep shaky exhales, fingers clenching and unclenching against the pillowcase. He watches for more signs of discomfort, evidence this is too much, that Yuzuru will need Shoma to take a little more control. He trembles, here and there, muscles twitching in his thighs, his back, his shoulders.

When the quiet stretches on for too long, Shoma breaks it himself.

“Where do you need me to be?” He asks. His voice echoes soft, quiet. Yuzuru punches out a breath, buries his face in the pillows.

“Anywhere,” he says, “wherever is easiest, just—”

“Nope,” Shoma says. Yuzuru makes a little distressed sound, and Shoma watches the muscles in his calves begin to tremble. Shoma reaches a hand to wrap gentle fingers around his ankle. To stabilize him, just a little. He rubs a thumb over the thin, delicate skin, and Yuzuru takes a deep, grounding breath, turns his cheek into the pillow.

“I don’t know,” Yuzuru croaks. Shoma gives his ankle a reassuring squeeze. “On your stomach?”

“Where?”

“ _Shoma_.”

“Next to you?” Shoma offers, and Yuzuru shakes his head. “Then _where_?”

“Over—here,” Yuzuru says, gesturing vaguely to the backs of his thighs. Shoma eyes the milky skin, the light twitch and flex of muscle. Even like this, supine, laid bare over the mattress, Yuzuru look impossibly strong. Shoma crawls forward—Yuzuru twitches violently when the mattress dips where Shoma’s hands press into it—until his chest is over Yuzuru’s thighs, and he holds himself up over them, weight bared on his elbows. He dips slowly, cautiously, and presses a kiss to the small of his back. Yuzuru twitches again, bows his spine into the touch.

“Like this?”

Yuzuru nods. Shoma mouths at him again, and Yuzuru’s legs jerk, knocking at Shoma’s knees where he kneels over him.

Shoma creeps back, until his face is level with the curve of Yuzuru’s ass. He puffs out a breath, and Yuzuru whines—quiet, barely a whisper. His skin smells clean, fresh, familiar, like Shoma’s own soap, and he takes a deep, steady inhale, drawing it in. With it comes a picture, its object in sparkling focus, the edges fuzzy and faded: Yuzuru stretched beneath the spray of the shower, head tilted, neck long and lean, muscle and sinew creating channels for the water to follow. Shoma can see, so clearly, the trail of rivulets at his shoulders, where they pool in the dips at his collar, and over his chest, down the hard lines of his stomach, and lower still, past his hips, his thighs, twisting about his knees and calves and pattering into the basin.

Shoma blinks back into the present, and drags his lips over the paths the droplets might take—around the outside of his ass cheeks, first one side, and then the other. Yuzuru gives a miniscule, barely controlled roll of his hips.

“Okay?” Shoma asks, lifting his head enough to see Yuzuru’s upturned cheek. Yuzuru nods, squeezes his eyes closed.

Shoma dips back down, drawing his nose against the crease where Yuzuru’s ass meets his thigh. It would be so easy, he thinks, to get carried away. To flit his tongue out to taste, lick a line beneath both cheeks, draw a barely-there kiss up the cleft of his ass, to the small of his back and down again. To spread him open, taste him where he is so desperate to be touched. To take his time, do as he pleases. To feel Yuzuru writhe beneath him, press into his every touch, beg and plead and whine for more.

But not now.

Instead, he draws back. Takes a breath. Shifts to straddle one of Yuzuru’s legs, resting his chest against Yuzuru’s thighs. The muscles tense beneath him as Yuzuru props himself up a little on his elbows.

The light in the room is dim, a faint orange tinge from the setting sun beyond the window. Shoma presses a feather-light kiss to one cheek—it feels impossibly soft, velvety, and the dry skin of Shoma's lips seem to snag and scratch at it. He flicks his tongue out to wet them, kisses again, and Yuzuru gives a soft, breathy hum. Shoma rolls his eyes up, follows the length of Yuzuru's body—trails the deep trench of his spine, the quick, shallow shift of his rib cage, the quiver of muscles at his shoulders—to his head, where Yuzuru is twisted, just a little, to look down at him.

"What next?" Shoma asks, whispered against Yuzuru's skin. Yuzuru shudders, ducks his face down to the pillow.

“I don’t know,” Yuzuru says again. “I don’t—just—” He gives a flustered little huff, and pushes his hips back, impatient. “I don’t know how to...tell you. I don’t know.”

Shoma cranes up to press a solid, soothing kiss to the small of Yuzuru’s back. He wants to reach for a hand, knot his fingers with Yuzuru’s, keep him rooted and steady, but both of Yuzuru’s arms are curled under the pillow, squeezing at it. Shoma kisses him again, and again, until a little of the budding tension bleeds out of him.

“It’s fine. Just—describe what you saw? Or what you liked best, anything. I’ll try whatever.” He kisses him once more—Yuzuru gives a deep, shaky sigh—and settles back down again, breathing out against the backs of his thighs. “But you have to tell me.”

There is a small pause, and then Yuzuru grumbles, and Shoma lets himself relax. Admittedly, he was beginning to worry, just a little, that this was perhaps too much to ask—that Yuzuru was too uncomfortable. But he gives a second huffy little grunt, and Shoma allows himself a small, breathless laugh. He presses a palm to one cheek, spreads it, just enough to lean in and blow the barest stream of air over Yuzuru’s hole. A reward, if only a small one.

Yuzuru yelps, and Shoma laughs again.

“You know you’ve been _incredibly_ overdramatic about this, right?”

Yuzuru reaches down a hand to shove at Shoma’s cheek. Shoma grabs it, and turns it to kiss Yuzuru’s palm before letting him go.

“Alright,” he says. “What next?” At Yuzuru’s disgruntled little whine, Shoma adds, “how should I—I don’t know, touch you? Where should my hands be.”

Yuzuru smushes the side of his face into the pillow. There is sweat beading up by his temples, and Shoma wonders, briefly, if it’s from the lingering humidity, or—well.

Through half-pouted lips, Yuzuru says, “hips.”

Shoma rolls his eyes, but does as instructed—grips both of Yuzuru’s hips in his hands. His thumbs fit neatly into the dimples at the bottom of Yuzuru’s back, and he rubs at them absently, waiting. Yuzuru’s shoulders flex—Shoma can’t see his hands where they’re buried beneath the pillow, so he can only guess, but he’s sure they must be clenching. Tight, white-knuckled fists, reigning in Yuzuru’s frustrations.

 _Good_ , Shoma thinks, watching him. The waters are rising—the floodgates can’t hold forever.

“Lower,” Yuzuru says. His voice comes so quiet, Shoma almost didn’t catch it. He gives an inquisitive little hum, and Yuzuru says, louder this time, “lower. Hold them—further down.”

Shoma glides his palms from Yuzuru’s hips, anchored over the bone, down towards his legs, a slow, easy grip, until his palms settle over the joint where Yuzuru’s thigh begins, and there, Yuzuru nods.

“There,” he says. Shoma’s fingers tickle close to his groin—Yuzuru presses his hips absently into the mattress, closer to the touch.

“Then what?” Shoma says. The room is stiflingly warm, Shoma’s chest sticking sweat-tacky to the backs of Yuzuru’s thighs. There is a sheen, thin and damp, across the expanse of Yuzuru’s back. The light plays in it, contouring the dips and troughs of his spine, his ribs, and bursting from every bulging ridge of bone, of muscle. For a fleeting moment, Shoma considers abandoning the plan altogether and instead crawling up the mattress, crowding himself over Yuzuru’s back, sucking kisses into the smooth skin at the back of his neck, beneath his ears, across his jaw.

Pressing close. Taking advantage of the drop in Yuzuru’s defences.

But that isn’t what Yuzuru wants—not right now. That isn’t what they agreed to.

“One hand on my back,” Yuzuru says. “Low, on—right at the bottom.”

Shoma does as told, offering a deep, appraising kiss to one round, milky globe as he goes. Yuzuru clenches, first, then relaxes into the press of Shoma’s mouth, softening against the wet lave of his tongue. Shoma lets his hand slip, fingers splayed, against the low arch of Yuzuru’s back, between his hips.

“Like that?” He asks.

“Mhm,” Yuzuru hums, a little distant. Shoma draws gentle patterns with his fingers. The grip feels...okay, but it strains Shoma’s shoulder in an odd, deadening way, sending the beginnings of numbing tingles towards his elbow.

“Can I move a little?”

Yuzuru hums again.

Shoma curls his arm further over Yuzuru’s back, resting his forearm against the base of his spine, and splaying his fingers instead over Yuzuru’s ass cheek. Yuzuru jerks, and Shoma gives the flesh a squeeze. Yuzuru groans.

“Is that okay?”

“Better.” Yuzuru’s voice comes hoarse, but the word is quick, sure. Honest. Shoma smiles against him, hugs the curve of his ass closer.

“Now what?”

Yuzuru burrows his face into the pillows, and his answering groan comes muffled through the fabric.

“You know _what_ ,” he says. Shoma presses his smile into Yuzuru’s skin.

“Mmhm,” he hums, “I have a fair idea, yeah. But I want you to tell me.”

A tremor courses its way through Yuzuru, creeping down his spine and quaking at his hips, shuddering through his thighs, and Shoma gives a placating stroke of his fingers, smoothing over Yuzuru's soft, trembling skin. He shudders, and presses his face harder into the pillow.

"It's fine," Shoma says. His voice comes softer than he'd expected, breathy, lips tracing tantalisingly close to Yuzuru's cheeks. "Relax."

"Easy for you to say," Yuzuru wheezes, tilting his head to look over his shoulder. Shoma peeks up at him; Yuzuru's eyes are dark, and shining, and the skin of his cheeks is rosy, and a fine sheen of sweat slickens his brow, and—

—and Shoma kisses him, first on one round globe, then the other.

He wants to kiss Yuzuru properly. To crawl up over him, twist him by the jaw and press his lips to Yuzuru's own, wet and pink and pouting, swollen from the bite of his own teeth. He wants to kiss his cheeks, his nose, the tense muscles at his jaw—he wants to smooth back the hair sticking in fine tendrils to his forehead, tuck the loose strands behind his ears. He wants, more than anything, to tell him just how _good_ he looks, staring down at Shoma like that, waiting for a move to be made for him.

Instead, he peppers more kisses, quick and dry, across the small of Yuzuru's back. Yuzuru arcs into the touch—barely more than a twitch, really, but it doesn't go unnoticed. Shoma smiles against him.

"Is this okay?" he says. Shoma feels the bed bob, rolls his eyes up once more to watch Yuzuru nod into the pillow.

"Yeah," Yuzuru says, a little hoarse. And then, "more."

The word sounds...uncertain, questioning, almost, but it’s better than silence, so Shoma obeys. He hums in encouragement, and paves another line of kisses, lower this time, trailing from the very edge of one cheek and over to the other. These kisses are warmer, wetter—Shoma laves his tongue on the skin, this time, taking extra care at the cleft of Yuzuru's ass, pressing a little harder, licking for a little longer.

Yuzuru whines when he shifts away, and his hips lift up as Shoma's head does, reaching for him. Searching for more.

"Again," Yuzuru says. Shoma does as told, lower still, and this time, takes care to spread Yuzuru apart, to dip in between his cheeks, closer to where Yuzuru wants him. It would be simpler to give him what he wants, peel the flesh aside and tongue at Yuzuru's hole right now—he can almost hear it, Yuzuru's surprised little squeal, can almost feel the twitch of muscle against his tongue. He can imagine the eager shift of Yuzuru's hips, rutting back to meet him, and the steady stream of sound that will come out of him, louder and bolder the longer Shoma touches him.

He creeps away again, to the outside of Yuzuru's thigh, and sucks softly at his skin. Yuzuru sighs shakily into the pillow.

" _Please_ , Shoma," he begs, body rolling impatiently against the bedding.

Shoma shifts, dips to suck a bruise into the back of Yuzuru's thigh.

"Please what?" He asks. If he were more well-practice, Shoma might try for something sultry—a slow, teasing tone, maybe, or else something deep, or perhaps demanding, but as it stands he can only ask honestly, inquisitively. The edge of hoarseness comes only from his own excitement, but it reels Yuzuru in just the same, drawing a quick, sucking breath out of him.

" _Shoma_ ," he says, pleading. He cants his hips back, enough to shift his weight, barely, onto his knees, and reaches a hand to catch the hair atop Shoma's head. " _Please_."

 _Aah._ This, Shoma thinks, feeling the gentle scrape of Yuzuru's nails against his scalp, is about as good as he's going to get. It would be foolish to think he could push hard enough for Yuzuru to give in the right places, not without him collapsing wholly.

He nods, and reaches up to disentangle Yuzuru's fingers from his hair. It's not that he doesn't _like_ it, when Yuzuru holds him like that, manoeuvres him and traps him, it's just, he's looking for words, today. He wants Yuzuru to _talk_ to him.

Slowly, Shoma pulls Yuzuru's cheeks apart. The skin between them is smooth and flushed, and when Shoma blows a long, open-mouthed breath against it, the tight ring of muscle at Yuzuru's entrance twitches.

"Please," Yuzuru says again. Shoma blows another stream of air over him, directed this time by the pucker of his lips. Yuzuru keens quietly, hips lifting slightly off the mattress.

"Ready?" Shoma asks. This time, it is his voice that sounds tremulous, betraying for the first time a little of his own nerves, his own excitement. He himself is half hard, the swell of his cock pressing uncomfortably against the back of Yuzuru's leg.

Yuzuru nods. Shoma gives him one last look, watching as he readjusts, digs both arms deep under the pillow and hugs it tight against his face. Part of Shoma wishes he could make him raise his head, that he could keep his eyes on Yuzuru's face as he finally touches him, and watch his expressions unfold as he experiences this for the first time. But it would be too much, he knows—Yuzuru would never stay still, would hide his face in the bedding, or else with his hands, palms pressed tight over his heated cheeks.

Shoma shakes himself out of his head, and takes a deep, calming breath.

And then, he gives Yuzuru’s hole a first, tentative lick. He’d expected a taste, something noticeably different to the skin of Yuzuru’s thighs, his back, his cheeks, but everything tastes….much the same; warm, fresh. Shoma licks at him again, a kitten-flick with the tip of his tongue. Yuzuru makes a barely discernible noise, high in his throat, and his hole quivers, clenching beneath Shoma’s tongue.

“Okay?” Shoma asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Yuzuru breathes. He sounds shaky, unsteady, and Shoma gives the flesh beneath his palm a reassuring squeeze. Yuzuru presses back, towards Shoma’s mouth. “More.”

“Like that?”

“Mm.”

Shoma repeats the move, again and again, until Yuzuru’s hips shudder a little beneath him. His legs move, twitching, calves clenching— _toe-curling_ , Shoma thinks, pulling at the cheek in his grip and spreading Yuzuru open some more. It tugs at the little ring of muscle, soft and puffy from Shoma’s teasing touches, and opens it up enough that the very tip of Shoma’s tongue sinks in.

Yuzuru clenches with a sharp grunt and digs his hips down into the mattress, away from Shoma’s probing tongue. Shoma withdraws.

“Not good?” He asks. The position gives him so little freedom to touch—he wants to reach for Yuzuru’s hands, his face, somewhere to offer some kind of comfort while the tension thrums it’s way through Yuzuru’s body, but he can’t. He settles instead for a gentle kneading, the fingers of both hands working softly into the flesh beneath their hold. Yuzuru releases a shaky breath.

“Not bad,” he says. “Just...weird.”

“Should I not do that again?” Shoma asks.

“I...don’t know,” Yuzuru says. It’s the first time today that Yuzuru has said those words, and Shoma has believed him. Shoma nods.

“Okay,” he says, nuzzling his face back into the cleft of Yuzuru’s ass. Yuzuru relaxes, hard, tense muscles softening, allowing Shoma to spread him apart once more.

“You can—use your lips more.”

Shoma pauses in pleasant surprise. Yuzuru’s voice had been muffled by the pillow, and the edges had been tinted with nerves, embarrassment, but the words had been clear enough—a request. A demand.

He hums in the affirmative, and leans in closer, deeper, to cup his lips over Yuzuru’s hole. It’s...a little more awkward, like this, requires pulling Yuzuru’s cheeks further apart in a way that must ache, just a little, but Yuzuru doesn’t complain—instead he sighs out the ghost of a moan, content, _pleased_ even, and presses back towards Shoma’s mouth.

Admittedly, Shoma wishes he had a better idea of what exactly he was supposed to _do_ . He hadn’t thought about it all that much, when he agreed—trying it for Yuzuru’s sake was one thing, but making it something _enjoyable_ for him? That’s a different matter entirely.

"You’ve gotta tell me if it's okay," Shoma says, barely lifting himself away from Yuzuru's hole. Yuzuru groans—a little too loud—and his thighs clench.

"It's good," he says, quick and earnest. "Shoma, it's—keep going."

Shoma can only take his word for it, pressing close again to mouth wetly at him, alternating between those quick kitten licks and longer, flattened strokes of his tongue, concentrating the touch around Yuzuru's hole and spreading it further between his cheeks. Great, firm licks from the bottom of his back and down to his balls. Yuzuru's little huffing moans grow louder, more frequent, as he concentrates less on muffling them in the bedding and more on Shoma's every touch.

Each tiny sound that bleeds out of him fuels something hot in Shoma's gut, winds him tighter. He grips Yuzuru's hips harder, flexes his fingers into the soft, supple flesh of Yuzuru's ass and holds him closer, presses his mouth tighter against the swollen, quivering muscle. Periodically, he catches himself moving his own hips, grinding down into the back of Yuzuru's leg. Yuzuru must be able to feel him, his hardness, the growing wet patch on his sweats, and maybe later Shoma will be embarrassed about it, how easily wound up he is, but not now. Not yet.

Now, he flicks his tongue rapidly over Yuzuru's hole, and moans softly against him as Yuzuru trembles, jutting back towards him, searching for more. He gives one particularly jarring jerk, pushing back, and the move spreads him open enough for the tip of Shoma's tongue to slip inside again, squeezed tight in the flexing, quivering muscle.

Yuzuru gives a sharp little cry, and drives his hips forward, away—but he is shuddering, entrance fluttering against the tip of Shoma’s tongue. _Not bad,_ Shoma thinks to himself. _Just weird._

Yuzuru tucks his hips further into the mattress, pulling out of reach. Shoma shakes his head, flicks the tip of his tongue—Yuzuru pushes himself up on his elbows.

“Shoma, I don't—” he breaks off with a gasp, as Shoma probes his tongue in deeper. His fingers catch around Yuzuru’s squirming hips, pull him gently back—closer, onto the insistent press of his tongue. Yuzuru gasps again, louder this time and edging on a whine. Shoma slips a hand beneath him, presses a palm low on his abdomen, to hold him still.

“Sho,” Yuzuru says—whimpers. Shoma withdraws his tongue but keeps his face close, holds Yuzuru’s hips still and steady.

“Hold still,” Shoma says. He rolls his eyes up, watches Yuzuru’s head shake. “Is it bad?”

“Weird,” Yuzuru says again. Shoma presses his face deeper between Yuzuru’s cheeks, lips playing against the hot, pliant entrance.

“Is it bad?” he asks again. He licks out again, flattens his tongue in a long strip, then presses the tip against Yuzuru’s hole, flicking in gently. Yuzuru’s stomach arcs down towards the bedding.

“ _No_.”

“No?”

“It's—not bad.”

Shoma hums, pleased. He closes his eyes, and buries his face forward, stroking the soft skin and quaking muscle low on Yuzuru’s stomach.

“Then let me do it.”

Yuzuru keens quietly, but this time, when Shoma pokes his tongue forward, past Yuzuru’s rim, he doesn’t pull away. He trembles with the effort of keeping himself steady, and Shoma rubs circles on Yuzuru’s stomach with his thumb, a silent reward for good behaviour. With his other hand, Shoma pulls at one of Yuzuru’s cheeks, and opens his lips against him.

“ _Aaah—ah,_ Sho—“

Yuzuru’s voice is soft, whispered, but there is the barest hint of strain in it, and the more Shoma works his mouth—lips pressing and sucking, tongue poking and rolling and laving over Yuzuru’s entrance—the more strenuous his quiet, mewling sounds become.

And instead of pulling away, Yuzuru’s hips start rutting up and back, jerky, insistent little presses that beg for more. His chest drops back to the bed and he turns his cheek to the pillow, and even from where he lies, Shoma can hear Yuzuru panting.

“‘S good,” Yuzuru slurs.

Shoma hums, pleased, and shuffles, wedging himself between Yuzuru’s outstretched legs. Certain that Yuzuru has settled, Shoma moves his hand away from Yuzuru’s abdomen, and instead lets the fingers of it dance lightly, absently, up and down Yuzuru’s waist, from hip to rib and back again. The skin jumps and trembles beneath the feathery touch.

“Don’t—don’t stop,” Yuzuru breathes, tense and rasping. Shoma hums again.

Everything is hot and wet where they meet—Shoma’s chest, sweat tacky against Yuzuru’s thighs, and his palm, slick against the flushed skin of Yuzuru’s ass; lips and tongue, messy and sloppy between Yuzuru’s cheeks, against his twitching hole.

Yuzuru gives another quiet, bare moan, and Shoma smiles against him. He squeezes Yuzuru’s hip, gentle, reassuring.

There is a tickle, and then Yuzuru’s hand is trailing over the back of the fingers holding his hip. It follows over Shoma’s wrist, up his forearm, where Yuzuru grips loosely.

“Alright?” Shoma murmurs, barely lifting his lips away. Yuzuru gasps softly.

“Ah—yeah, keep—keep going.”

Shoma closes his eyes, continues his attentions. Yuzuru’s hand shifts, now and then, sliding up and down Shoma’s arm, searching for somewhere to grab, to hold, before dropping back to his hip, and prying Shoma’s fingers loose, knotting them in with his own.

“Love you,” he gasps, thready, jutting his hips back towards Shoma’s pressing tongue. Shoma presses his lips against Yuzuru’s rim and gives one long, hard suck that leaves Yuzuru breathless, and pulls away with a wet pop.

“Very romantic,” he snickers quietly, running his thumb back and forth over Yuzuru’s hole. Yuzuru gives him a glance that, Shoma supposes, is meant to be withering, but is mostly blissful; a pleasured flutter of lashes. Shoma burrows his smile against one pale, pillowy cheek, and adds, softly, “you too.”

Yuzuru hums, contented. Shoma keeps his eyes upturned, watches the soft, slack expression on Yuzuru’s face as he continues absently touching, switching to rub the flat pad of a finger over him. Yuzuru’s eyes fall shut, lids flickering gently at the corners with every pass over his hole—Shoma considers what he would do if he pushed in, then; sank the very tip of his finger inside of Yuzuru, slipped slowly deeper.

Maybe later.

For now, Shoma mouths at him again, and Yuzuru nods lazily against the pillow.

“Like that,” Yuzuru breathes. “Like— _nng_ —your tongue, put—put your tongue in again.”

Yuzuru sighs _loudly_ when Shoma does as told, quick and eager, pleased by Yuzuru’s instructions. He fucks him with the tip of his tongue until Yuzuru is bodily quaking, until his thighs tense and shake at Shoma’s sides.

And then he stops, and kisses the bottom of Yuzuru’s back.

“Good boy,” he whispers. Yuzuru moans out an indignant huff.

“I’m not a _dog_ ,” he says. Shoma nips the inside of his thigh.

“No, you’re not,” he says, “you’re a _baby_.”

Yuzuru props himself up enough to turn, to poke his tongue out at Shoma, but the look on his face shifts swiftly from one of disgruntlement to open-mouthed bliss, as Shoma spreads his cheeks once more and cups his lips over Yuzuru’s hole, sucking gently. He coughs out a gasp, and drops his chin to his chest.

“ _Ah-ha_ , no—no fair,” he pants, raising his hips up into the touch. Shoma curls his arm more securely over the small of Yuzuru’s back, digs his fingers into the supple flesh of his ass. Shoma shushes him, and pokes out his tongue, flicking the tip of it quickly around Yuzuru’s rim. Yuzuru croons, and Shoma grips him tighter, steadies the frantic press of his hips—and all the while, he keeps his eyes upturned, watching. Gauging.

He can’t see Yuzuru’s face properly, not from this angle. But he can see the heave of his shoulders as he sucks in gentle little breaths, and the jut of his shoulder blades, slipping beneath the sweat-slick skin at the top of his back. He can see the hang of his head, loose, chin dropped to his chest, and oh—he can _imagine_.

Yuzuru will have his mouth open, maybe. Eyes closed—squeezed shut, or perhaps fluttering, lashes fanning shadows over his cheeks, where blood pools in great blushing bruises from ear to ear. Shoma can picture the damp, shiny skin of his lips—blood red, and so _soft_ , parted around every jumping breath.

Shoma presses closer, runs the flat of his tongue more solidly over Yuzuru’s hole, and lets his eyes drop shut, too. He can see him more clearly, like this. Yuzuru moans, quiet and tremulous. He’ll bite his lip, then, shiny white teeth digging welts into the skin, muffling his voice. He’ll huff breaths through his nose instead: quick, short, sharp, pants that grow harder and harder with every swipe of Shoma’s tongue against him.

Yuzuru mewls, back curving in a deep bow. His chest presses into the mattress, and his hips ride up, chasing every rhythmic lick.

“Let me—” Yuzuru gasps, thighs shifting restlessly on either side of Shoma’s chest. “Let me up.”

Shoma gives one final sucking kiss and pulls away, shuffling to give Yuzuru some space. Yuzuru backs his ass up, shifting his weight onto his knees.

It takes some readjusting, and puts an odd pressure on the back of Shoma's neck, but he manages to settle back into his sucking kisses quickly enough, with one hand pressed flat against the deep curve of Yuzuru's stomach, arched towards the bed. His cock bobs up wetly against Shoma's knuckles, twitching every time Shoma probes his tongue in Yuzuru's hole.

It is stiflingly hot, like this, the humid heat of the evening pressing in on them, combined with the damp warmth radiating from Yuzuru, and the stifling heat between his cheeks is almost suffocating. But Yuzuru is close, Shoma can feel it; in the relentless shuddering of his thighs, and the gentle, steady rock of his hips, ass pressing back onto Shoma's nipping, kissing lips. He can feel it in the tension in Yuzuru's stomach, twitching and heaving beneath his palm, and he can hear it in every soft, choked little groan, in the quiet mantra, _"Shoma, Shoma, Sho—"_ spilling past his lips.

He doesn't need Yuzuru to say it, but his rough, coughed out, "I'm— _hn-aah—_ I'm close," sends a thrum of heat from Shoma's head to his toes. His own hips buck a little, back curling, rutting down against the straining fabric of his sweatpants, but the pressure is barely enough.

"Please, Shoma—I'm—Sho—gonna come," Yuzuru murmurs, head bowed, chin to his chest. His elbows tremble where they bear his weight. Shoma nods, and hums, and slides his hand from Yuzuru's stomach to the underside of his straining cock.

" _Ah_ —fuck, Shoma—!"

He feels impossibly hot in Shoma's palm, rigid and pulsating as Shoma strokes over him, fingers playing against the red, tender head, teasing at his leaking tip. Yuzuru drools mindless words, sounds creeping out of him, quiet please for more, to not stop.

He comes with a cry louder and sharper than Shoma is used to, body pulling taut like a bow and snapping with a violet shudder, spilling up over his own chest, dripping onto the mattress.

Shoma rides him through it with gentle, mouthing kisses over the fluttering muscle of his entrance, one hand pressed down on Yuzuru's calf, the other buried beneath the waistband of his own sweats. He strokes himself, quick and clumsy, and muffles his grunt between Yuzuru's ass cheeks as he comes messily over his own fist.

Yuzuru collapses bodily onto the mattress the moment Shoma pulls away. He plants a few final, wet kisses, panting against the bottom of Yuzuru's spine, then he crawls shakily up the mattress and flops onto his back at Yuzuru's side.

There is a long moment in which they say nothing, only breathe. The air in the room feels stuffy, hot, and there is a distinct smell that Shoma hopes doesn't drift beyond the boundary of his bedroom door.

Shoma rolls his head lazily to one side. Yuzuru has his cheek pressed into the pillow, so only one half of his face is exposed, and Shoma flits his gaze over it, drinking him in. He looks... _soft_ , like this. Bathed in the peachy light from the sky beyond the window, the flush of his skin looks tender, sun-kissed, and the black of his eyes shimmers, though he can barely keep them open. Shoma watches him blink, quick and fluttering, until his lids settle closed, lashes fanning softly against his cheeks.

It's all he can do not to reach out, to touch.

"Yuzu?" He says, voice quiet. For a moment, Shoma thinks he might be sleeping, but then he shuffles, folds his arms atop the pillow beneath his cheek, and blinks blearily up at him.

"Hmm?"

"Can I kiss you?"

It sounds _stupid_ , to ask him, but it seems like...well, the _polite_ thing to do, considering. Yuzuru must think it's dumb, because he snorts out a laugh and shakes his head fondly, then stretches over, and catches Shoma's lips in a gentle, barely-there kiss. Shoma brings up a hand, knocking a knuckle beneath Yuzuru's chin and tilting his head, pressing closer, kissing a little deeper. Yuzuru makes a noise, low in his chest, and the fingers of one hand move to stroke absently up and down Shoma's side, before climbing high, curling against the side of his neck.

"Thank you," Yuzuru murmurs.

The words are so quiet, and hypnotised as he is by the tenderness of Yuzuru's touch, Shoma almost doesn't hear them. They sink into him as though through a fog, and it's a few seconds before Shoma can comprehend them. He shakes his head, kisses Yuzuru again.

"I mean it," Yuzuru says. He pulls back, and Shoma chases him a little way, searching for more of the closeness, for the press of his soft, warm lips, until he can crane his neck up no higher. He drops back against the mattress with a huff, and blinks up at Yuzuru, tilting his head. "You didn't...have to do that."

Shoma cocks his head further to the side.

"I know," he says. He frowns up at Yuzuru. Did Yuzuru really think he had felt _obligated?_ Shoma shakes his head, and shifts his weight up onto his elbows. Yuzuru sits back, perches on his knees. "I wanted to."

"I wanted you to," Yuzuru says. Shoma rolls his eyes, and curls a leg up to kick at him, but Yuzuru catches his foot easily, and grips at his ankle. The drying mess in his sweats sticks him unpleasantly to the fabric.

"You want me to eat vegetables, too," Shoma says. "Have you ever seen me do that?"

"No—but now that you mention it—"

"I don't do things _just_ because you want me to," Shoma says. Yuzuru snaps his mouth shut. "I wanted to—I don't know, make you feel good. I wanted you to be less...weird, about—wanting things."

Yuzuru squirms a little, then scratches the hair at the back of his head.

"And I wanted you to stop being so obviously horny around everybody when the simple solution was to, like, _have sex_."

Yuzuru balks, gaping in horror.

"I wasn't being _obviously horny_ ," he hisses.

"You were moody," Shoma starts, listing it off on his fingers. "You were jumpy. You haven't stopped moving all day. You peeled the labels off of _four_ bottles in the kitchen earlier—I don't even know how you found four bottles?"

"Alright!" Yuzuru says, holding up his hands. "I get your point. But I'm just—still, thank you."

Shoma narrows his eyes, and Yuzuru widens his own, dipping his head to look up at Shoma through his lashes. Shoma shakes his head, and shoves at Yuzuru's cheek, pushing his face away.

"You're welcome, whatever."

Yuzuru grabs at his wrist and pulls it away from his cheek, brushing a small kiss to Shoma's palm.

"It was...good," Yuzuru says. Shoma raises his brows.

"I got that, yeah."

"Was it—did you—I mean, was it okay? For you?"

Shoma blinks owlishly at him, a little disbelieving. Did Yuzuru really miss it? Did he miss the press of Shoma's hardness against him? The quick, frantic flick of his arm against Yuzuru's thigh as he stroked himself to finish? Just how _easily_ he came?

"Are you serious?" he asks. It's Yuzuru's turn to blink at him, tilting his own head to the side in real, honest confusion.

Shoma pointedly wriggles his hips. Yuzuru's gaze drops down, then lands on the big, dark patch on the crotch of Shoma's sweats, and his eyes grow impossibly wide.

"Great," Shoma says shortly. "It was great. Speaking of which, can I go clean up now? This is _sticky_."

* * *

It takes some fighting to draw Yuzuru out of the room the following morning. He seems twitchier even than he was the day before, though his reasons, Shoma now understands, are very, very different.

"What if someone _heard_ us," Yuzuru whispers, ringing his hands together. Shoma stands with one hand on the doorknob, the other braced on his hip, levelling Yuzuru with his most impatient gaze. It isn't overly well-practised, reserved usually for Itsuki (and sometimes Kanako), and it has very little effect on Yuzuru, who paces by the bed, nervous. Overthinking.

"They didn't," Shoma assures him.

"Your parents _like_ me," Yuzuru says,and then, "they like me, right?"

"They like you."

"Right. You think they're still gonna like me after they—after hearing us do _that_?"

"They're _adults_ ," Shoma says slowly, exasperated. It isn't all that often it is him having to be so patient, explaining simple concepts to _Yuzuru_. A little part of him finds it almost funny, but mostly it's—well, it's _annoying_. Shoma is tired, and hungry, and Yuzuru is refusing to go get breakfast.

"I know, but—"

"And _we're_ adults. I'm...pretty sure they're—aware. Of what we might get up to."

"But it's—"

"Stop," Shoma says, holding up a hand. Honestly, they've been quietly arguing about this for long enough that Shoma thinks his parents have probably left for the day already. He tells Yuzuru so, in a tone that is close to gentle, to placating, but there is a definite edge of agitation that he is sure Yuzuru won't miss.

"Let's just eat, okay? Please?"

On cue, Shoma's stomach gives a loud, rumbling growl. He looks pointedly at Yuzuru, who seems to have some very fast, very thorough inner battle, before nodding, helpless and hesitant, and following Shoma to the door.

"Thank you," Shoma says. He stretches up on his toes and kisses the corner of Yuzuru's grimacing mouth. "It'll be _fine_ , I promise."

The kitchen is almost empty, save for Itsuki, who is sitting with his headphones on, staring at his phone screen and quietly shovelling food into his mouth. Yuzuru tenses, and keeps close behind Shoma, shoulders hunched and head bowed. It's a pointless exercise, Shoma thinks, because even with such a pronounced curve to him, Yuzuru is _still_ taller than Shoma, the top of his pink face still very much visible. Itsuki's eyes roll up to watch them as they pull out chairs, take their seats.

"Morning," Yuzuru says, tense and quiet. Itsuki pushes his headphones down to rest around his neck, and helps himself to another great serving of rice.

"Morning, Yuzuru," he says, and then to Shoma, "I beat your high score."

"By how much?"

"Not telling."

"Liar."

Yuzuru serves up dainty little portions of the various dishes scattered about the table. Shoma, in a gesture that he thought might go unnoticed by his brother, reaches a hand to squeeze at Yuzuru's thigh. He'd hoped it would be comforting, but the moment his fingers close around Yuzuru's leg, Itsuki's eyes light up, glaring at Shoma's arm where it disappears under the table.

“You know,” Itsuki starts, scooping up a great mouthful of rice, “I’d tell you to get a room, but you’ve already got one, and you still can’t keep all your gross _noise_ trapped in it.”

Beside him, Yuzuru _chokes_. Shoma glances over to see the panicked blow of Yuzuru’s eyes, wide and already so _desperately_ embarrassed, and the frantic bob of his throat as he tries to swallow whatever he had inhaled. It’s difficult not to laugh, honestly; Itsuki is looking smug, and Yuzuru like he’d pay money for the floor to swallow him whole, and the longer he sputters, the redder his face gets, the more the wide, self-satisfied smirk begins to fall off Itsuki’s face.

Slowly, Itsuki lowers his chopsticks back into the bowl. He looks at them—first at Shoma, and then at Yuzuru, coughing and spluttering, face cherry red and flushing deeper with every passing second, and back to Shoma again—then drops his hand to the table completely.

“Wait, wait, no no no,” Itsuki says, with a look of dawning comprehension stretching his eyes and gaping his mouth. Shoma bites his cheek, caught between Yuzuru’s mortified choking and Itsuki’s growing horror. “No!”

“You said—” Yuzuru wheezes, heaving in a few strained breaths, “you said nobody would _hear_ —”

“ _No_ ,” Itsuki says again. He shakes his head, pushes his bowl across the table. “Absolutely not.”

“No?” Shoma asks innocently, swallowing the urge to laugh as he pats Yuzuru roughly between the shoulder blades. Yuzuru gives a strangled little wail, and Itsuki mimics him, staring at them in abject _disgust._ Shoma pinches his lips to one side, biting back a grin. _Serves you right, brat_.

“No!” Itsuki repeats. “You’re—gross, you’re serious?! I was—I was _joking!”_

**Author's Note:**

> I promise i have fics that aren't just smut planned I just haven't finished any of them yet thank u for coming to my ted talk


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